


Now or Never Now

by moosetifying



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Babies, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Everybody Lives, Getting Together, Judaism, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosetifying/pseuds/moosetifying
Summary: Stanley's son gets a brit milah, Richie tells the truth, and Eddie takes what he wants.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	Now or Never Now

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song of the same name by Metric.
> 
> _Because the last time I let myself feel this way_   
>  _It was a long, long time ago_

Exactly nine months and eight days from the day they killed the clown, Eddie stepped out of a taxi and into the humid morning air of an Atlanta synagogue parking lot. 

The scent of flowers lingered lazily in the air; the sky overhead was so blue that it was almost painful to look at. Eddie took a deep breath, let it fill his lungs all the way down to the bottom, and smiled to himself. 

“Eduardo!” The voice that broke the hush was loud, brash, and slightly nasal. Eddie’s smile got bigger before he could get it under control, and he turned around to see Richie Tozier coming toward him with outstretched arms. 

“Richie,” he said, and accepted the hug.

“Eddie, my love, light of my life,” Richie said, grinning down at him and squeezing him obnoxiously tight so that Eddie let out an involuntary little squeak. “You’re looking scrumptious.”

Eddie’s hand where he was clutching at Richie’s back felt empty without the wedding ring he had worn there for years. Eddie patted Richie and then let go and stepped away. “You look like a Lego man a baby’s been chewing on. Do you ever cut your hair?”

Richie let out a pleased cackle, his head falling back. Eddie blinked at the long, exposed line of his throat, and then Richie was straightening up and the full force of his attention was on Eddie again. 

“Did you just get here?” Eddie asked. 

“Nah, man, I got in way earlier, I just came out here for a smoke.” 

Eddie eyed Richie’s hands, empty of cigarettes or lighter, then froze as realization came upon him. “Wait, am I the last one here? What the fuck, am I seriously the last one to arrive?”

“Yeah, sorry, everyone else is hanging inside,” Richie said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You’re like, super late, dude.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie said faintly. “What the fuck. I thought I calculated my arrival time perfectly.” He’d planned it all out so well, he’d thought—the flight from New York, the taxi from the airport to the hotel to the synagogue; there had been traffic, yes, and he’d sat in the backseat and bit back the profanities building up behind his teeth while the driver shot him nervous looks—but it hadn’t been _such_ bad traffic, not bad enough to make him late. Hell, Stan had said 10 in the morning and it was 10:01! 

“What can I say,” Richie said, shrugging. “You fucked up.” But he started cracking up even as he said the words. “Nah, you’re okay. Everyone else just showed up super early. We’re sitting around shooting the shit and waiting for people to show up. Nothing’s happening, it’s fucking boring. I thought these types of shindigs were supposed to be fun.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Eddie said, still unable to shake off the sting of being late—Eddie was never late. Eddie spent a lot of time priding himself on not being late.

“Come on,” Richie said. “Everyone’s waiting on you.” He swept into an elaborate bow, arms flourishing as he launched into the British Voice. “After you, my liege! Right this way to the brit milah ceremony of the Baby Uris!” His British Voice was very good now. Eddie glared at him. 

Richie cackled all the way across the parking lot.

.

In the foyer of the synagogue, amidst the small groups of milling, chattering people all dressed in their brit milah best, Mike Hanlon was showing the Losers his vacation pictures. “This is me on the beach,” he said, phone clasped in one enormous hand. “And this is me with an alligator named Fred.”

Eddie inspected each photo, nodding his approval as they flicked by. Mike was so aglow with good cheer and good living that he was hard to look at straight on. Eddie snuck a glance at Richie next to him, bent over a bit to see Mike’s phone, and felt something burbling up in his chest, some odd warm feeling. It might have been happiness, or hope, or anticipation, but Eddie couldn’t exactly be sure—he hadn’t had much cause to feel any of those emotions the past twenty-seven years, until these last few months. 

All at once, everything seemed too much: the bright sunlight filtering through the windows; the voice of the guests as they waited for the ceremony to start; the smiling faces of his friends surrounding him. 

With the muttered announcement of, “Bathroom,” Eddie escaped.

“Come on,” he said as he examined himself in the mirror. He looked much the same as always—big eyes, tight mouth, taut lines. Nothing outwardly betrayed the new transformations the last months had wrought, the immense (or so they felt, to him) changes he’d made. 

Today was a day for celebration, friendship—and maybe some other, new changes.

“Okay, Eddie,” he said to his reflection. “You’re okay.”

Richie was busy expounding when he returned. “Yeah, I’m telling you, they totally _do_ chop the tip of the dick off!” he said as Bev cackled. Above her, his chin resting on her head, Ben looked bemused. “They do it in a special dick-chopping chair! And then they give the kid a name, I swear to god this is real, I looked it up!”

“Jesus, Richie,” Bill said, and laughed. 

“When is this thing even supposed to start?” Eddie asked. “It’s almost 10:30.”

“Right now,” Stan’s calm voice said, and they turned as one to envelop him in a hug, a many-armed, messy, perfectly Losers’ hug.

“I’m glad you guys are all here,” Stan said once he’d extricated himself. 

“We wouldn’t miss it, man,” Ben said, his eyes all soft and sincere. 

“Yeah, it’s not everyday Stanley Urine has a son,” Richie said.

Stan broke into a grin at that, a full-on broad grin that was rare to see on him. “That’s true. But seriously guys, the ceremony actually is about to start. You go on in—I’ll see you after.”

“Time for dick-chopping,” Richie said gleefully.

“Oh my god, shut up before you get us kicked out,” Eddie said, and shoved Richie past Stan and through the entrance to the sanctuary.

The ceremony itself went by faster than Eddie expected—then again, the sum total of his knowledge of brit milah ceremonies was entirely gleaned from Richie’s off-colour jokes. There really was a chair, a big ornate one, and Patty, glowing despite her obvious tiredness, passing off a tiny bundle of blankets on a pillow to Stan. There were Hebrew blessings and a cup of wine, then a baby crying for a few sharp, painful seconds before fading out. Then the name, spoken loud enough for Eddie to hear, seated as he was behind a crush of people: “Daniel ben Stanley and Patricia.”

“Daniel,” Bev said, as a chorus of mazel tovs filled the room. “I like it.”

“He’s a dad,” Bill said with obvious disbelief. “Stanley Uris is an actual father.”

“Crazy,” Mike said, nodding. 

“Who would have figured Stan would be the first Loser to have a kid?” Eddie asked. 

“He already had the dad look down by age 11, so it wasn’t much of a stretch,” Richie said, and then dodged Eddie’s light smack with a giggle. “Those cardigans are hella sexy!”

“Nothing wrong with cardigans,” Ben said mildly. 

Around them, everyone was getting up, shuffling chairs around, moving as one great mass toward the door. Eddie looked up as they went. 

“Where’s everyone going?” he asked.

“Dude, we’re at a Jewish party,” Richie said. “Where else would they be going? To the bagels and lox.”

“I could go for a bagel,” Bev said thoughtfully, as they joined the fray. 

“Then let’s get you a bagel,” Ben said. Bev gave him a warm smile, while behind Ben’s back, Eddie and Mike rolled their eyes at each other, an _oh, those two young lovebirds_ look. 

“I say!” Richie bellowed, throwing an arm over Ben’s shoulders. “What’s a guy gotta do to have a handsome fella like you fetch him some sweet, sweet carbs?” 

“Richie!” Ben said—or groaned, rather, his face filling up with red. Mike and Bill pushed past them both, laughing as they headed up the aisle. Ben tried to follow while Richie continued clinging onto him, haranguing him with laughter in his voice. 

Eddie stared at Richie’s broad back as he walked, noticing almost against his will how Ben—no short specimen himself—was still several inches shorter than Richie. 

It had been almost three months since he’d last seen Richie in person. In those three months, Eddie had gotten divorced and Richie had come out, first to the Losers and then to the world. It was clear to Eddie, seeing Richie now in the time after that change, that he was different in small, subtle ways. He seemed more settled. Loud and boisterous, yes, crass and veering on the obnoxious, it went without saying. But the joking came from the inner wellspring of energy that Richie had always carried with him; it no longer had the edge of sharpness, deflection, whatever, that had cropped up before. 

It was a good change.

“You okay?” Beverly said. She had dropped back from the others and was walking alongside him—Eddie realised with a jolt that he’d slowed down a bit, staring at Richie’s back and contemplating the enigma of him. 

“Just thinking,” he said. “You know how it is.”

Beverly reached out and took his hand; he knew she could feel the empty place where his wedding ring had been. Her small hand squeezed his tightly and let go. “I know,” she said.

There was a peace to her face, and the edge of alertness that had seemed to overlay her body at all times, as it had in Derry, was gone. Eddie threw her a smile and together they followed their loud, arguing, wonderful friends out.

.

There were indeed bagels—many of them, along with trays of egg salad and tuna and cream cheese; piles of cookies and pastries and little buns and fruit. Eddie stared at the huge spread and tried not to feel overwhelmed. 

He had made so much progress when it came to his collection of fears and medical maladies, but sometimes he stumbled into an unexpected obstacle—like falling into a rut in the road, stuck spinning his wheels, needing extra effort to pull himself out. Eddie was so busy contemplating the choices spread out on the table that he didn’t see the hand reaching out until it was too late and it had his cheek in a firm pinch.

“Cute!” Richie said. “Cute, cute, cute!”

The words, long familiar, activated something in Eddie, an automatic response engrained in childhood. “Don’t call me cute!” he said. 

“How can I help it when you’re being such a cutie?” Richie said. “Pint-sized boy with a big old frown on. You look like a grumpy chihuahua. What’s got you so twisted up, huh? You want me to pick out a bagel for you?”

“No, I don’t!” Eddie said. He was so annoyed that he forgot to feel at a loss, immediately snatching up a plate and filling it with whatever was in reach. Richie watched, heckling all the while, his own fully-loaded plate in hand, and then the two of them went and sat at a table in the corner with the other Losers, where Richie proceeded to make Eddie laugh so hard he choked with a story of how Richie had been so nervous at an exam in college that he’d vomited all over the paper, while the others begged Richie to stop because it was destroying their appetite. 

.

As promised, Stan came and got them. He led them to a small room off the entrance hall, where Patty was sitting with a slumbering Daniel held in her arms.

“Everyone,” he said, “meet Daniel Uris.”

“Oh, wow,” Ben said softly.

Eddie had to agree. Daniel was almost impossibly tiny; his eyelashes brushed the curve of his cheek and his lips were parted, tiny drool bubbles appearing every time he breathed.

“Stan the Man!” Richie said quietly—well, quietly for Richie at least. “Stanley the Manley. Staniel and Daniel Maniel. Great job on the kid.” He raised his hand for a high five, which Stan promptly ignored in favour of crossing over to Patty and pressing a kiss to her head. 

“Thank you, Richie,” Patty smiled. “I think we did a great job, too.” 

“Can I—?” Mike asked, and when Patty nodded, Mike bent down, crouching so that he was level with Daniel’s head. He looked enormous next to the baby. “Hello, baby Daniel,” he cooed. 

“Oh my god,” Richie and Bev said, in unison. 

Ben’s eyes were huge and softer than Eddie had ever seen them. He crouched next to Mike and they stared at the baby together. Above them, Stan smiled at them all, his hand on Patty’s shoulder. 

The door opening made them all turn around fast—old fears were hard to die, it seemed—but it was just an older woman in a peach skirt suit and matching hat. 

“Patty, dear?” she said. “Is everything all right in here?”

“We’re okay, Mom,” Patty said. “He’s fast asleep. Have you had something to eat?”

“I just wanted to check in on my grandson,” Ruth said. Her gaze passed over them all—Eddie was sure he felt it settle slightly on the scar on his cheek before moving on. 

“Everything’s fine, there’s no need,” Patty said, and then Daniel woke up and started crying and the Losers took it as their cue to usher themselves out, leaving Stan and Patty and Ruth to figure everything out from there.

.

Later, Eddie stepped outside and found Richie around the back of the synagogue. He was leaning against the wall, the long, broad lines of his body on display, and playing with an unlit cigarette in his fingers while gazing out with unfocused, far-away eyes.

Eddie let himself look, really look, for just a moment, then shook his head and strode forward. “So this is where you ran off to.”

Richie started and straightened up, flashing a brief smile when he saw Eddie coming toward him. “Aw man, you caught me! I was just dreaming away about your mom—those velour tracksuits really got me all hot and bothered—”

“You’re _such_ an asshole,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes. They’d made it through this entire thing without a single mom joke; he’d hoped that would be the end of them but that was too much to expect when it came to Richie, clearly. 

Eddie settled against the brick wall, tipping his head back and taking in a deep breath of air. Richie shifted uncomfortably next to him, still twiddling the cigarette. Eddie considered him for a moment. “You look good,” he said. 

“Huh?”

“You look good. Better. A lot better.”

“Oh, you mean the gay thing?”

“Oh my god,” Eddie muttered. “Yes, fine, the gay thing. You look good.”

What Eddie really meant was: You look better. You look settled in your skin. You look like you’ve shed whatever weight’s been crushing you. You look like the ghosts of your secrets have stopped haunting you, finally. 

Except Eddie couldn’t say that, really, and Richie probably wouldn’t want to hear it. So Eddie settled for facing forward again.

“Thanks, man,” Richie said. “I’m actually pissed at how much better it is, now that I’ve told everyone. Turns out my therapist was right all along, what the fuck.”

“An actual professional knows better than you? Colour me shocked.”

Richie huffed out a laugh at that and stuck the cigarette back in his pocket. There was a moment of silence—not awkward, just quiet. Eddie was content to stand there, next to his best friend, and simply be. Then Richie spoke.

“I meant what I said, back in the parking lot. You look good.” Richie’s voice was hesitant. “You seem…calmer.”

Eddie shrugged. “Turns out divorce agrees with me.” He stared out at the dumpsters in their little shed; someone had forgotten to padlock it shut and the gate was swung open. There was no breeze to move it though; the air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of sun and grass. 

“It's not about the divorce, really," Eddie said. "Well, okay, it is, it is about the divorce, but the divorce is just part of it. It’s like—” Eddie paused; words were piling up behind his teeth, desperate to spill out. Suddenly, he needed Richie to see, to understand. 

“My whole life, I’ve been trapped. Trapped by my mom and my fucking fears—everyone telling me what to do, who I am, what’s good or bad for me. Telling me that what I want is bad for me. And down in that fucking cavern, I woke up. I’m awake, Richie, I’ve never been so fucking awake and alive and—free. And I’m not going back, I’m not letting anyone tell me what to do anymore. I’m not going to let anyone stop me from taking what I want anymore. I’m in charge of myself now and I say that I get to be happy.”

Richie was silent beside him. Eddie turned to look but Richie’s face was unreadable, his gaze unfocused again, staring down at the gravel beneath their feet. Eddie would have thought he was completely out of it if not for the jittering of his leg. 

“Richie?” Eddie asked.

Richie shook his head slightly, his eyes clearing as he looked up at Eddie. “Yeah, man. I hear you. I’m—good for you, man. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie said. 

But there was still something niggling at him. Something left unfinished. It had been so easy to fall back into the patterns of their childhood—the bickering, the jokes, the teasing. But Eddie had come here with more than that in mind. Eddie had come here with one more change he wanted to make. Eddie had come here with a plan.

Eddie looked at Richie, tall, broad, funny, closed-off Richie. He stared at his profile, the square jaw, the stubble, the way his glasses dug into the tops of his cheeks.

It was on the tip of Eddie’s tongue, the words, _Richie, I love you_ , when Richie said, abruptly, “I need to tell you something.”

He looked sick. Eddie, alarmed, immediately said, “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“I need you to listen,” Richie said. He was shaking. Eddie had panicked thoughts of cancer, sickness, secret girlfriends—which all fled when Richie turned to him, stepped very close, and said: “There’s another secret I’ve been keeping. And—and you’re so brave, and I’m trying to be brave too.”

He took a deep, gulping breath. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you for forever. I can’t remember when I didn’t love you. And—” he gulped in another breath. “I’m really sorry.”

Eddie looked up into Richie’s face, the huge worried, hunched-over mass of him. Eddie saw something he wanted very much—something he’d wanted for a very long time. There was no one to tell him what to do anymore; Eddie wasn’t going to let anyone tell him what to do anymore. Eddie was going to take what he wanted.

“Come here,” he said, and when Richie didn’t move, blinking down with wide eyes, Eddie gently laid a hand on either cheek and brought his head level, so that Eddie could kiss him.

The kiss was gentle, sweet. Eddie let his lips caress Richie’s softly, feeling the shape of them, feeling a happiness light up in his chest like liquid sunshine. 

Then Richie’s arms came up and clasped Eddie close; his lips moved and the kiss changed, got deeper and hotter. Something sparked between them, so potent that Eddie’s heart started pounding. He opened his mouth and let Richie's tongue in; the sensation was incredible, unbearable—he hadn’t known a kiss could ever feel like that, so good that it was burning him inside, just a simple kiss.

They broke apart to breathe. Eddie felt his chest heaving and knew his eyes were wide. Richie looked just as shaken as he felt; he was staring at Eddie like he couldn’t believe he was there.

“I love you,” Eddie said.

“I love you,” Richie said. 

And then Bill opened the back door. 

“Come on, guys!” he said. “Stan wants to make a speech.” He paused when he saw how they were standing and began to frown. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, making sure to keep his voice steady. “We’re good. We’ll see you in there.”

“Are you having a fight?” Bill asked suspiciously. “Please don’t have a fight, not here. Stan will kill you. I know you’re both insane, but I need you to keep it in just this once.” 

Eddie glowered at Bill. “Fuck you, we’re not insane! And we’re not fighting, Jesus.”

Bill shot a look at Richie, who was standing back, completely silent, and then shrugged and backed into the building, still staring them down. “Speech, now.”

“Oh my god, we’re coming!” Eddie said. 

The air was less charged after Bill’s interruption; Eddie felt less like he was going to explode with need and more like he needed to take in some deep breaths and also look at Richie forever, at the way his hair was mussed and his lips were slightly wet. His eyes were slightly wet too, Eddie realized with a jolt like a punch to his stomach. 

Eddie couldn’t handle Richie being upset; he was surging forward before he realised he was moving, asking, “What’s wrong?” and reaching out. Richie permitted him to draw him close and into a hug.

“It’s just a lot,” Richie said, his voice froggy. “Um. Sorry.”

“I love you,” Eddie said. “Everything’s going to be okay.” And he meant it. He was surer of it than he’d ever been in his life.

.

Two steps into the room, Eddie found himself being offered a plastic cup full of liquid. He looked at it suspiciously.

“Just take it,” Stan sighed, and shoved it forward until Eddie had no choice but to grab it. Beside him, Mike, clutching a cup of mysterious liquid of his own, was handing Richie one.

“It’s wine,” Ben said kindly, nudging Eddie ever so gently with his elbow. “You can stop making that face.”

“Eddie can’t stop making that face,” Richie explained earnestly. “That’s just how it looks, he can’t help it.”

“I’m going to murder you,” Eddie said, and Beverley’s elbow smacked into his ribs. In the ensuing bustle that was coordinating seven people and seven plastic cups of wine—Patty, who had politely excused herself, was sitting in the corner holding Daniel and looking amused—Eddie found Richie’s hand and clasped it tight. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stan said. “Everyone, keep it down. You’re going to wake up Daniel.”

“Speech!” Bill said, though quietly. 

“Speech!” Beverly echoed.

Stan stood there, cup grasped in one long-fingered hand. With his hair curling over his forehead and his prim blue cardigan, he looked eerily like his eleven-year-old self. Then he frowned and the lines came into sight—crow’s feet, worry lines, the topography of time etched into his face for all to see.

“So. I have a son,” he said. “There’s a brand-new life here in this room with us. He’s going to have a different childhood than the one we had. Uh—”

He shifted his arm and Eddie’s gaze was drawn inexorably to the silvery lines of the scars on his wrists, peeking out of the sleeves of his cardigan. 

“What I want to say is, I’m glad I was brave,” Stan said. “I’m glad I did come back to Derry that day. And despite how horrible it was to go through that, I’m glad we did what we did. We’re free now, in a way we weren’t during the past twenty-seven years. And—I’m glad you’re all my friends.”

Bill squeezed Stan’s shoulder. “I’m glad, too.”

“We’re so happy you’re here with us, Stan,” Bev said.

Patty blew Stan a kiss and he caught it out of the air, his eyes soft. 

Eddie looked at Richie and found Richie looking right back at him, the weight of unsaid hopes and plans and dreams lying between them, just waiting to be brought to life. Eddie gripped Richie’s hand tight and lifted the plastic cup in his other hand high.

Around him, the Losers were doing the same, seven cups glowing deep red in the light.

“To Daniel Uris,” Bill said, and they all echoed it. 

Stan was grinning so hard that his eyes were scrunched up. “To Daniel,” he said. “L’chaim.” 

“L’chaim,” Eddie murmured. To life.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](https://moosetifying.tumblr.com/) or [ twitter](https://twitter.com/moosetification)!


End file.
